


Management

by amireal



Series: Crisis [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Cuddling, Depression, Gen, M/M, Major Depressive Episode, Nick Fury's views may sound famliar, Slow Romance, fundamental misunderstanding of mental illness, gross abuse of breakfast foods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint chokes out a laugh, because oh god, Coulson should not say those things, he looks up to explain it when he sees Coulson’s face, which is smiling softly and happily.  Their eyes meet and something inside Clint feels alive again, only it’s been so long the feeling confuses him, but he won’t look away because it’s something <i>new</i>.</p><p>Or</p><p>Things get better. A little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Management

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags, while this is the beginning of the recovery arc for Clint, it's not a fast or simple thing and there's still plenty of major depressive episode to go around, with a large side of anxiety. Also, Nick Fury makes an appearance and while I don't like the one dimensional bad guy Fury, this one espouses certain ideas and feelings that are pretty common, especially 10 years ago. This does not necessarily make him a bad guy all around, just a stubborn ass who thinks he knows better than everyone else.

For the third night in a row, if Clint counts that night on the couch, which he does, because it feels good to have that many good things in a row, Clint wakes up only as tired as when he fell asleep, maybe even a little less. For the first time in a while, he’s been waking up without feeling worse, feeling run over and run down and having to reach deep inside for the energy to go to the bathroom. Now he stalls because Coulson is there, relaxed and sleepy right next to him. Clint discovers that Coulson has held him through the entire night, never letting go and the idea makes him smile, a true smile, and for a second it feels strange to smile that well or deeply.

“Morning?” Coulson says, though it’s more of a rumble to Clint, whose ear is pressed against Coulson’s chest.

“Mmm,” Clint says, torn between a full bladder and utter comfort. The bed, for the first time in a long time, is not a place to fear, of long and unhappy hours where he tosses and turns more than he sleeps before he has to get up again.

“Come on,” Coulson pats him, actually it’s more like petting, soothing strokes down his flank, “we’re about five minutes from my alarm going off and ruining this mellow vibe—”

Clint chokes out a laugh, because oh god, Coulson should not say those things, he looks up to explain it when he sees Coulson’s face, which is smiling softly and happily. Their eyes meet and something inside Clint feels alive again, only it’s been so long the feeling confuses him, but he won’t look away because it’s something _new_.

“Clint,” Coulson eventually says roughly, fingers reaching out to touch Clint’s face, “look at you, laughing.” The way Coulson says it, so full of wonder and pride, makes Clint puff up a little in reflex. Those fingers trace his cheek bone before disappearing. Coulson’s face closes off, not all the way, but just enough. “We should get up,” he says more seriously, the roughness of morning still there but the wonder is put away.

Clint nods and does the hard part, rolling away, he wants that Coulson back, the sleep mussed, unguarded, half asleep Coulson that seems to see him and care about him and understand that the little things are a big deal. No, he makes his thoughts turn around, Coulson still cares, he still understands how hard this is for Clint, he just needs space. Last night he promised Coulson and Clint can do what he promised, about helping Coulson stay on the right side of his own moral line. He can do this for him, he can not be upset when he pulls back just a little, because everything else is so good.

“Up,” Coulson squeezes his arm, “I’ve been thinking about trying pancakes.”

Clint turns his head to see Coulson has already sat up, back resting against the headboard. He feels the need to say, “You shouldn’t go through so much trouble, you know I won’t eat that many,” because Coulson is already going through so much trouble and wasting food on top of that just seems like too much.

“Batter can be refrigerated,” Coulson shrugs, “go, shoo, take your morning meds and meet me in the kitchen.”

It doesn’t occur to Clint until he’s washing his hands why Coulson would push him to get up first. He swallows back a burst of something hot he can’t name and it’s scary, it makes his heart beat too fast and his brain flail because he just can’t deal with that right now and he spends a few long seconds panicking until he realizes that Coulson knows. He knows that this deep well of hot emotion is there and he knows that Clint isn’t capable of dealing with it either and as suddenly as it happens, it unhappens and Clint’s shoulders relax from being up around his ears and he can breath again.

He feels unaccountably shy when he’s done all he can do to waste time in the bathroom, he wants Coulson to have his time, he doesn’t want to intrude in ways he’s not welcome. Eventually he smells the wafting aroma of coffee and he figures that’s as good a sign as any. 

Clint shuffles to the kitchen to find Coulson mixing a beige, yeasty looking bater while the coffee machine chugs away on the counter. He’s changed into jeans, but the shirt is the same soft one from bed and for some reason that makes him smile again, though he manages to settle his face before Coulson looks at him. He’s not sure why it’s important to save up those smiles, to spread them out so that Coulson can take them in each time and maybe loosen that tight grip for half a second before closing back up. Clint thinks that maybe if he shows them too often, Coulson will develop an immunity, or worse, need more space.

Clint settles on one of the extra tall chairs that accompanies the tiny bar-like area at one end of the open kitchen as Coulson pours tiny pancakes onto the griddle, maybe twice the size of a silver dollar, sort of like soft, golden brown potato chips. He serves them with a choice of cinnamon and sugar or maple syrup. The tiny size of the pancakes somehow makes them easier to eat, it reduces the expectations that a large pancake on his plate might give him.

“Real maple?” Clint asks while giving the cinnamon and sugar a try, it turns the pancakes into something other than breakfast, more like tiny cakes or flat donuts, he likes it. Clint then spends several seconds examining the feeling of genuinely liking something new instead of just finding it, simply, not terrible.

“I stocked up the last time we made it north of Massachusetts,” Coulson explains while pouring a healthy portion from the maple leaf shaped bottle onto his plate, “I don’t use it often so I still have 3 of the 4 bottles I picked up in Maine.”

He offers the bottle to Clint who shakes his head, still finding the cinnamon and sugar pretty interesting, “Maybe another time?”

Coulson smiles and nods, “Sure. It is pancake day, after all.”

Clint eats his sixth and probably final, for now, mini pancake before asking, “Pancake day?”

Coulson shrugs as if to say, ‘why not?’ and finishes off his stack of three full sized pancakes before chugging the rest of his coffee mug. “I’ll put the batter in the fridge and grab some fruit for me, go pick something out for us to watch and I’ll do my bathroom run?”

Clint sticks to the middle cushion, hoping that’s enough of a purposeful reach out for Coulson, he’s only feeling so brave at the moment. When Coulson appears all he does is put a bowl of grapes on the coffee table and slide into one of the corners with the same open limbed actions they had established yesterday and Clint finds it slightly less scary to tilt left and let his body relax into Coulson’s. He hesitates briefly before taking the remote, he’s monopolizing the television but Coulson always seems so pleased when he does it that he can’t stop. It only just occurs to him that Coulson’s setup is pretty sweet, he’s got the full cable package and that includes not only InDemand, the pay version, but OnDemand, the free as long as you’re paying your monthly fee version.

He remembers reading about it, thinking that’d be a pretty awesome thing to have once he gets his own place, which at the time of reading, was coming up pretty quickly, but now he thinks, maybe not. A long time ago, he used to make a list, a list of things he wants in his own place, a space that only has to please _him_ and no one else, but every time he gets close to that moment, it seems to push further away. He tucks that thought away for now, it’s too difficult to handle and usually leads to a spiral of some sort and Clint still feels pretty amazing from waking up with Coulson.

“Stargate?” Clint asks, steadily working through each movie channel’s offerings.

Coulson makes a show of thinking it over, “Am I allowed to comment?” He’s smiling as he asks it and Clint thinks maybe the question isn’t actually a deal breaker.

“Sir,” Clint says, “I may not have your clearance level, but even I know that would just be asking the universe to prove you wrong.”

“A Pot. Kettle. Black. Sort of situation?” Coulson looks mildly amused but the corners of his mouth are raised just enough that Clint knows he’s close to laughing, but it fades too quickly and he turns to look at Clint, too seriously for Clint’s liking. “Clint, could you,” he pauses, obviously uncertain about what he wants to ask. Clint tries to make himself look receptive and not too needy. He wants Coulson to feel free to ask whatever he needs to ask. Clint is asking for so much and he already feels so much better, he thinks he can probably manage something small for Coulson. “I’d appreciate it,” Coulson finally says, “if you didn’t call me sir?” even as he says it, it sounds like a compromise coming out of his mouth.

“No problem,” Clint says quickly, because it’s such a little thing and he knows that it’s also not quite what Coulson wants to ask but something significantly smaller, easier, and he can absolutely do that. “Coulson,” Clint nods at him.

Coulson’s face goes complicated for a moment, but the body Clint is leaning on doesn’t tense under Clint’s chest so he hits play on the first episode of Stargate and waits. Coulson will say it eventually, if he decides it needs to be said. For the most part, they watch the first episode in companionable silence, it gets a little weird when the female nudity happens, two guys basically snuggling while there are naked boobs on the screen seems kind of weird to Clint, but Coulson’s hand doesn’t falter, it just continues its idle movements, sometimes circles, sometimes stroking, sometimes absent scratching and it all makes Clint feel happy so he deals with the naked— oh good god full frontal? He kind of hopes that’s a one off, even that one startled Coulson.

By the end of ninety minutes, Clint is sufficiently intrigued by the whole thing to commit to a few more episodes. When Clint ventures to ask Coulson his opinion he gets a mild, “It’s MacGuyver,” for his efforts and then thinks that maybe he’s accidentally stumbled over one of Coulson’s fictional heroes, only it would have to of happened when Coulson was mostly an adult. That thought tickles Clint a little in weird ways.

An episode later, Coulson squeezes his shoulder and announces it’s brunch time with a cheerfulness that doesn’t seem forced. Clint sits up and that ominous feeling he gets whenever Coulson slides away from him, that it might be the last time he gets this type of comfort feels less oppressive than usual. In fact, it’s only an idle thought and it doesn’t shock his system into anxious worry this time. Coulson eats with him again, two full size pancakes and some more fruit. Clint steals a few pieces off Coulson’s plate because they look fresh and delicious and Coulson does nothing but look pleased and add more fruit to replace what Clint takes. 

“You don’t have to eat when I eat,” Clint says after a half day’s worth of episodes and another dozen or so mini pancakes and stolen fruit, Coulson boils some eggs at one point, ‘for protein’, but Clint doesn’t want those. 

Coulson shrugs, “It’s better than staring at you as you take each bite. For a few days I can have 6 or 7 little meals. It’s fine.”

Clint shrugs and finds he does eat more if Coulson is sharing the meal than in the beginning when he’d wait patiently for Clint to eat what he could and then move on. The day is so easy it almost makes Clint nervous, but all of the tough things that need to be said have been said and there’s no true negotiation left and it’s a truly pleasant day for Clint.

Until around eight o’clock or so, he’s got one more episode until Coulson makes him another batch of pancakes and on screen, Daniel Jackson is dead. It’s a shocking blow, how much that makes him hurt inside. By the funeral scene his chest is hitching and Coulson’s idle stroking has taken on an obviously soothing bent. A tissue is offered to him without question or comment and when O’Neill takes a golf club to a window Coulson hits pause. “Should we stop?”

Clint shakes his head, because it’s too late to stop, he needs to know how it ends if anything. “I’m 99% sure this is a fake out and that those aren’t flashback scenes,” Clint says, voice shaky, “I’m just, I don’t know, it makes me think about things, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Coulson says quietly and hits play, but the arms around him keep him closer, hold him tighter and that’s really good too. It takes ten more minutes for Clint to be sure the show definitely hasn’t killed Daniel and his tears settle down for the rest of the episode, Coulson’s arms, however, don’t relax.

They share the bed again that night and a couch the next day. The food of the day turns out to be French toast and Coulson shows Clint how to make just enough batter for four slices at a time. A skill he picked up when he first started cooking for himself he tells Clint as the first batch is frying up and he sips slowly on his fresh mug of coffee.

Once again, this morning, Coulson shoo’d him out first and then greeted Clint in the kitchen wearing worn jeans and a soft shirt. He doesn’t disappear into the bathroom for suspicious periods of time, just long enough for teeth brushing and toilet use, so Clint sooths himself with the knowledge that Coulson is still feeling fine about all of this and not pressed or pushed or whatever. Though he does make sure they both rotate into the shower that day, Clint thinks Coulson has probably been itching for one but has been putting it off for fear of leaving Clint alone too long to worry.

It’s another day of Stargate marathons only somewhere in the beginning of season two, Clint starts making comments. They’re not big comments, just the occasional gun safety comment, or harumph at the tactics of the four man team being completely misused, that kind of thing. Coulson lets him, occasionally venturing his own opinion. Over the hours they may have even participated in a complete conversation. Clint’s French toast also starts to vary, just a little. He tries the maple syrup in the morning and some fresh jams mid afternoon and in the evening Coulson takes out something called nutella and Clint makes noises about it, delicious food noises, and Coulson beams at him the whole time.

He wakes up Sunday feeling itchy and he can’t figure out why until Coulson casually mentions that he’s never had to go grocery shopping twice in under a week and asks if Clint will be okay on his own for a while. That’s when Clint realizes that Coulson’s five days are coming to an end and the groceries might be a test run for tomorrow. At least by now he’s pretty convinced that Coulson wants him to stay even when he’s not around. When he makes a passing mention to a future time, Coulson always makes sure to involve himself, usually only seconds into Clint’s internal worries about how he’s going to do things on his own start up.

It takes him three mini-meals to work up the courage to ask what time Coulson has to wake up in the morning, Clint thinks maybe he’s got enough in him to wake up with Coulson and take care of breakfast, but then he worries about the rest of the day and if he’ll have it in him to keep up with the small meals, maybe that’s what the groceries are about, finding things Clint can eat on his own. He’s so caught up he misses Coulson’s answer about the wake up time.

“What did you say?” Clint makes himself ask.

“I don’t have a particular time I have to wake up,” Coulson says lightly, but there’s a small line between his eyes that signals confusion or worry, “but I have been trying to keep us on a schedule, it’s better for people who have trouble sleeping.”

“But,” Clint frowns, “work?”

Coulson frowns too, gets that look like he’s going over files in his head and then his eyes pop with knowledge. “Oh, no, I took off five _work_ days,” he explains, popping up a waffle from the waffle maker and sliding about three bitefuls of scrambled eggs onto the plate. “We get called in on the weekends a lot and if there is an ongoing operation it can be scheduled across weekends, but generally they are not, technically, work days.”

Clint cuts his waffle into quarters along the convenient lines and then picks up a piece and dips it into the syrup bowl next to him. The crispy outer layer of the waffle melts next to the cold syrup and creates a delicious crunch in his mouth. “Does Fury know this?” Clint asks, worry for Coulson coloring his words. 

Coulson pauses, hands hovering over a the bowl of waffle batter, his back going stiff. “If he doesn’t, he’ll figure it out,” he pours the next waffle just a little sloppy, “he’s pretty smart.”

It’s the first time Clint thinks he must have really missed something in that conversation he half heard that first morning. It worries him and it must still show in his eyes when Coulson turns to face him. “Clint—” Coulson starts, but Clint has to interrupt him.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble for me,” Clint pushes out, it’s hard and his entire face feels warm with embarrassment when he’s done, but the idea of Coulson helping him to the point of repercussions makes his stomach crawl.

Coulson turns quickly and leans on the counter that butts up against the small eating area, “Oh h-hey, no.” Coulson uncharacteristically hiccups on a word and Clint wonders what he was going to say, but Coulson moves on quickly, “I’m not in trouble and I won’t get into trouble and if I do it’ll be because I think it’s worth getting in trouble for,” Coulson says it with such conviction that Clint can’t look up from his plate, so he doesn’t see Coulson reach out and gently touch his chin, fingers lifting his face so their eyes can meet. “You are worth some effort, okay?”

Clint resists closing his eyes and leaning into the touch, he knows that’ll just scare Coulson into that stiff backed thing he does so he just nods and tries to reach for a quip. “Only some?” he smirks, only Clint has a bad feeling it comes out less smirky, more trembling smile because Coulson’s thumb comes up and strokes him tenderly before letting go of him completely.

“More than some,” Coulson says seriously, too seriously, Clint is about to squirm out of his seat when the waffle machine dings in readiness and it takes Coulson’s attention away. He pops the crisp waffle out, this one with some wiggly edges and puts it on his own plate. “Clint,” Coulson calls, still looking down at his newly created waffle, “I want you here, okay? I’m glad you came to me. I don’t mind it at all. Okay?”

“Okay,” Clint whispers, remembering his shaky request to Coulson, to remind him of those things from time to time. “Okay,” he says a little more firmly, “thank you.”

The conversation drops until they’ve finished eating and have settled in for another episode. Coulson stops Clint’s fingers from pressing play by resting his hand on top of the remote. “I do have to make a grocery run, do you want to come with me?” As Clint hems and haws and tries to take an internal inventory of himself, Coulson just waits patiently. “There’s no wrong answer,” Coulson eventually says, “and I won’t make you make any decisions, but if something catches your eye you can just pop it into the cart.”

Clint thinks about it, about going out, having to get dressed enough for it, having to get to the car, get out of the car, wandering in and out of aisle after aisle and then the lines to pay. It brings up a conflicting feeling, on one hand, it might be nice to go out, maybe, on the other hand, going out requires so much of him.

“You can decide later,” Coulson says into his silence, “We’ve been getting up around eight, we can be out the door by nine and beat the ‘oh god the children are no longer attached to my hip I can do errands now’ eleven AM rush.”

It always surprises Clint how early they’ve been waking up, but both of their work schedules tend to favor early mornings and Coulson usually has them turn in around ten in the evening. Even with Clint’s eventual mid day nap, which seems to be getting shorter, he’s usually yawning by then anyway.

They agree to let it settle and if Clint wants to go, they’ll go, if not they’ll eat breakfast together and Clint will curl up on the couch on his own for an episode or two. It’ll be fine. 

It’s hard for Clint to go to bed that night, because now that they’ve talked about it, the day Coulson goes back to work looms like a tall overhanging cliff and he’s so intent on memorizing what he has, on being completely into it that he can’t actually experience it.

“Hey,” Coulson says after approximately the ten millionth twitch, “is this about the groceries or about me going back to work?”

Clint automatically relaxes when Coulson asks, sticking to the types of conversation Clint can handle, where Coulson says 90% of it and Clint just nods and grunts a yes.

“The second one,” Clint says without moving his head from where it’s resting comfortably on Coulson’s chest.

“We’ll work it out,” Coulson says evenly in that tone of voice that says ‘I’ve already planned it and twelve other alternatives, only worry if we get to Plan Q’ and puts a comforting hand on the back of Clint’s head, fingers disrupting the short hair in nice ways, “I can do half days for a while and bring home one of the secure laptops, there’s about three paper only projects that have been waiting for someone with enough seniority to get benched,” Clint makes a noise at that and Coulson tsks and scratches his scalp harder, “No I was going to end up having either do them myself or assign them out anyway soon. Some of them are actually pretty important.”

Clint lets Coulson’s calm voice wash away his worries and he falls asleep to a quiet monologue about how inventory paperwork and procedures needs a global overhaul.

In the morning, Clint wakes troubled. His sleep is still excellent and the longer that goes on the more that builds a feeling inside of him that’s something like elation, but the grocery decision is imminent and he still isn’t sure what to say. He thinks he’s up to doing something, but something smaller, more compact, without so many— moving parts. Still, he rolls out of bed and hits the bathroom because giving Coulson his time has become something of a mantra, a need to do something for him. When he comes out, Coulson is waiting for him in the hallway, already dressed, travel mug in hand and an understanding look on his face.

“It’s okay to not go,” he says, “maybe we’ll start with something smaller later today? Or tomorrow?”

Clint’s entire body sags with relief from tension he wasn’t aware he had been holding and he nods frantically. “Yes, please.”

Coulson smiles, “No problem. I’ll have my cell. Yours has been charging in the guest room outlet. Text me if you need to.”

Before he leaves, Coulson makes Clint a decent looking smiley face pancake, “How?” Clint asks.

“I looked it up,” he says, not taking his eyes off his own plate, “I was curious, it’s not hard and there was some batter left over that needed using.” The tips of Coulson’s ears are red and he won’t look Clint’s way and that makes Clint’s stomach feel funny but the rest of him feel happy or as close to happy as he gets these days. Which is actually a little closer than it used to be.

Coulson leaves with a final reminder about their cell phones and Clint curls up on the sofa, which feels strangely empty, and realizes that it’s Saturday morning and there might be cartoons worth watching. He scans the time tables, the guide button is a miraculous invention and should be honored internationally, and makes note of a few cool looking prospects, a Batman and a Captain America that looks like it’s not the same one he remembers from a kid. He never watched it more than a handful of times, but each time had felt like a major victory.

He’s got a good two hours before that first cartoon, so he cues up an episode he mostly napped through the other day. It’s not even twenty minutes in that the phone clutched in his hand buzzes. 

SHOPPING CARTS SHOULD HAVE TURN SIGNALS.

It’s accompanied by a picture of a woman walking diagonally across a lane, from one line of parked cars to another.

Clint sends back:

I CAN’T SEE ANYTHING IN THAT PICTURE THAT WOULD ACTUALLY BE HELPED BY TURN SIGNALS.

Coulson returns with:

TRUE, THERE’S NO EVIDENCE THAT HAVING TURN SIGNALS INSPIRES ONE TO DRIVE THEIR GROCERIES, OR OTHER WHEELED VEHICLES, IN A MANNER THAT USING SAID SIGNALS WOULD BE USEFUL.

Clint chuckles and the grip on his phone moves from clutching it tightly to his chest to stuffing it between the his body and the cushion where the vibration will tickle him.

Coulson continues to send him texts every few minutes, usually about what he’s doing at that particular moment and it makes Clint feel like he’s participating too. At one point, Coulson sends another picture, a slightly grainy photo, and that’s a feature that SHIELD has had for a while but having it on their personal phones is still weird, of a wall of pasta and asks if Clint has a favorite shape, other than elbows. That Coulson knows that much still makes Clint feel special, he takes a long look at the picture and decides to comment that he’s always been fascinated by angel hair pasta.

It happens two more times, both when a single item has about twenty choices and it’s always phrased in a way that’s not directly asking his opinion. So he tells Coulson about his fascination for shiny red apples, the kind that cartoons and some TV shows like to have kids give their teachers. Then in response to a picture of a wall of soda, he talks about his local soda fetish, because Clint has traveled extensively and found that soda around the world can be pretty interesting. Coulson tells him he’ll grab the imported French stuff this particular store seems to stock occasionally.

By the time Coulson announces that self checkout lines are a gift from a higher power, Clint has barely gotten through a single episode and he’s only minutes away from cartoon time. He switches the channel and catches the last half of a cartoon about a wacky square sponge and it’s surprisingly hilarious. He’s halfway through the Batman cartoon, Alfred has gotten more dry and sarcastic since Clint’s childhood and that’s kind of awesome, when the door rattles and Coulson’s familiar tread enters the apartment. Clint watches him walk across the living room and into the kitchen, holding six canvas bags in his hands. 

Clint stands up and follows him, perching on one of the super tall breakfast area chairs, so he can scope out what Coulson has bought. There’s nothing too shocking, though seeing his own specific choices mingling with Coulson’s makes his heart flip a little, in a good way. He reaches out to one of the empty canvas bags on the nearest counter, it appears old and worn, but well taken care of. When Coulson turns to grab the next bag to unload, he catches Clint’s examination and smiles. “My mom was occasionally a hippy, I picked up some habits.”

Clint’s laughing before he realizes it, the mental image of a tiny Coulson rebelling by being all prim and proper in a tiny suit, following around an exasperated flower child, whose eyes are full of love even as she winces at mini Coulson’s long, winding and childlike diatribes about how awesome The Man is, is too much for Clint’s beleaguered brain.

When he looks up, Coulson is staring at him with that look on his face, the one he usually he tries to hide from Clint, and his laughter peters out. “What?” he asks, still smiling faintly.

“You’re smiling, even laughing,” Coulson says softly, “I hadn’t realized how long it’d been until you started again.”

Clint’s face goes warm and he ducks his head, “You make me smile,” he says, what he doesn’t say is that Coulson makes it easier to smile, makes finding things worth smiling less work. He’s so busy swallowing his own words, he doesn’t hear or see Coulson come closer until the tips of his sneakers come into view. Coulson hugs him, it’s not like when they press together on the couch or even the bed, where their arms are loose around one another and it’s gravity doing most of this work. This is all Coulson, holding him tightly in his arms, tucking Clint’s head under his chin and then resting it there on the crown of Clint’s head. It makes him feel precious and cherished and Clint can’t do anything but hold Coulson in return, squeeze him tightly into his space, return the favor of appreciation.

“I like making you smile,” Coulson tells him, “you deserve to smile.”

Clint knows he has trouble with compliments, has for as long as he can remember, but that even the idea of someone thinking he’s worthy of good thoughts makes Clint squirm, is enough to make even Clint recognize how off his own thought patterns can be. There’s a moment when he realizes he actually didn’t have to struggle for that thought and his smile comes back, ten times larger and with more feeling. Whatever it is they’re doing, is working. “Thank you,” Clint says, holding Coulson tighter, because he can’t not. He can’t think of anyone else that would open their door at three am, have a work colleague climb into their lap and decide that instead of shipping them off somewhere, the best thing to do is to climb into whatever hole they’ve gotten themselves into and bring supplies so they can climb out together.

There’s a soft brush of something against the top of his head, but Clint gets distracted by the vibration of Coulson’s pocket before he can ask what that was. They separate as Coulson digs out his phone, Clint is surprised when all Coulson does is glance at the number and then send it right to voice mail.

“It’s been happening all week,” Coulson shrugs, “someone forgets to check if I’m in before trying to reach me.” He pockets the phone. “I don’t answer on my days off unless it has an emergency code attached.”

Clint blinks and is about to mention that Coulson always answered for him but thinks better of it. It might be one of those things Coulson thinks they shouldn’t talk about yet. He does get worried when Coulson grimaces, takes his phone out, grimaces harder and hits the busy button again within two minutes of the last time. It happens two more times before Coulson finishes the unpacking. Clint’s brain suddenly feels like it’s on all cylinders for the first time in forever, and there’s a briefly frightening moment when he realizes how sub par he’s been on his last handful of missions, when he realizes it’s probably Fury on the phone. He doesn’t say anything because it’s obvious that Coulson doesn’t want to talk about it and it’s also obvious that while the argument is about Clint, it’s also not really about Clint. He tries to suss out more information, but his brain slows back down with a suddenness that’s a little disturbing.

It rings another two times as they settle down on the couch, Coulson’s face going slowly more and more thunderous until finally, after sending the caller to voice mail yet again, he taps a few more buttons and then hits send. The phone stops after that and Clint wonders if Coulson actually blocked Fury’s number. Still, Coulson seems unconcerned and they settle in for forty minutes of TV before it’s time to try and eat again.

They veer away from the breakfast foods a bit which is okay with Clint, he’s been enjoying them but he thinks maybe he misses protein a little. For their next meal, Coulson digs out a tray and fills it with tiny versions of sandwich fillings, small slices of meats and cheese along with thin pieces of vegetables and a series of jars with toppings and condiments.

“This way all we have to do is take the tray in and out of the fridge,” Coulson says, pulling out a half dozen miniature bagels. “Try the olive stuff,” he says, “it works great with the salami.” So Clint does and it turns out to be pretty fun trying tiny bites of new things. Clint puts away five bagel halves before he has to stop, Coulson finishes his leftover half, explaining that half bagels just aren’t worth the hassle of saving.

The rest of the day passes in increments of Stargate and tiny sandwiches. They’ve just put away the first evening meal when someone bangs on Coulson’s door, loudly.

They both jump and Coulson’s hand presses some hidden button somewhere on the coffee table and suddenly there’s a gun. Clint’s eyes go wide and realizes that he’s been living in a SHIELD agent’s apartment and he hasn’t seen a single weapon. Probably on purpose. He bets the compartment is keyed to Coulson and only Coulson.

“Coulson!” A voice calls from behind the door and Clint’s eyes go wider. It’s Fury. 

“I thought you weren’t going to get in trouble!” Clint whispers frantically.

Coulson sighs, puts the weapon back and turns to Clint. “This isn’t trouble, this is a very old argument about a fundamental disagreement about how to handle some things.” Off Clint’s confused look, Coulson sighs again. “Director Fury is is a very smart man and very good at what he does, but sometimes,” he grimaces, “he refuses to change his mind despite mountains of evidence to the contrary. He’s occasionally strangely old fashioned, which is a point of view that can help him deal with the WSC and other similar groups and usually he can separate his personal feelings from— never mind.” He cuts himself off at the next set of bangs and squeezes Clint’s shoulder, “I’m not in trouble, but you should probably go to the bedroom for this.”

“Open the damn door, Cheese.”

Clint stumbles as he closes the door to Coulson’s bedroom. He knew Coulson and the Director have known each other for a long time, but that sounds like more than a long term professional relationship with a subordinate. 

“Pipe down Nick!” Comes through the door and Clint’s knees give out as he’s in the process of sitting down on the bed. He doesn’t want to come between a friendship, that’s practically his worst nightmare, but he’s frozen where he lands, the idea of going out there, to confront those two sets of muted voices, talking quietly but obviously upset, is absolutely too much.

Coulson’s voice stays mostly at the same steady, even cadence Clint has come to appreciate. Fury’s voice goes up and down with each comment but with the door closed Clint can’t make out more than every fifth word or so.

Eventually Fury’s voice gets louder and louder and the words clearer and clearer, by the time the “For Christ’s sake Phil!” makes it through the door, Clint is curled up under the blankets, actively trying not to listen. Coulson’s voice remains too low to make out, but with Fury’s half of the conversation Clint’s imagination starts supplying Coulson’s and it’s not a good half of a conversation inside of his head. 

Clint hums to himself, finding listening in too humiliating, they’re arguing about him and all it does is give him a strong feeling of nostalgia that makes him sick to his stomach. Still, a few choppy phrases make it through.

“…trying to get…” and “…more important…” and “…holding his hand?” that one is followed up by a thump and then, “…or fired?” a thud happens and Coulson’s voice finally raises. “… and see what happens, Nick.”

The silence that follows is somehow, even louder. Clint peeks his head over the edges of his dark cocoon after a series of heavy footsteps followed by a door slam echoes into the apartment. Coulson comes in seconds later, a little disheveled and already talking.

“…sorry about that Cl— oh Clint,” he kneels beside the bed, left arm slinging around Clint’s curled up form over the blankets. “Everything is fine.”

Clint uses his chin to nudge the blankets down further and next to his head is Coulson’s other hand, casually pressing into the mattress, probably to keep him balanced, but it’s his knuckles that catches Clint’s eyes. He recognizes those knuckles, red and a little scraped, just a touch puffy, a pre-bruise that will take a few hours to fully form. It’s easier to see because Clint has spent the last several days watching Coulson’s hands as they make him food or offer him the remote control.

He reaches out from under the blankets and touches those knuckles. Coulson’s sharp indrawn breath could mean anything from surprise to pain. “You hit him?” Clint asks because, no one hits Director Fury and just walks away, even with the memo about what happens in free spar, staying in free spar, 99% of SHIELD still hesitates to give it a go.

Coulson looks wry. “We— sometimes have an adversarial relationship,” the hand slung over Clint rubs up and down in the same familiar pattern Coulson has been using all week. “Director Fury and I— we’ve known each other for a long time, long enough to have a few arguments that never really end, just recycle through our lives. What you have to know is, that Fury is a ‘suck it up’ kind of guy,” Coulson shifts off his knees so that he can sit on the floor with his legs bent and crossed.

“Yeah,” Clint says while Coulson moves into a more comfortable position, “I’ve heard the speech.” It’s actually not a single speech, but Fury’s motivational moments aren’t always the most eloquent and are really only useful in certain situations. If it’s not one of those situations, he tends to make other people do the speech.

“You should have heard it when I first joined,” Coulson says, smiling lightly, “it was a lot rougher.”

Clint’s eyes go a little wide, because that’s a little difficult to imagine.

“Right?” Coulson chuckles and then puts his hand back where it was on Clint’s side and his face goes serious again. “As I was saying, Director Fury has never met a pain so terrible he’s not been able to handle it, to suck it up and move on” he deliberately looks Clint in the eyes and leans closer, “he thinks that means he’s strong and has a high pain tolerance and some sort of master control over his hind brain. I think that means he’s never experienced certain types of pain, the pains you can’t simply will your body to ignore, but it’s hard to convince the guy that walked into the med tent under his own steam with three bullet holes of that.”

Clint gets everything that Coulson is saying because he’s more or less thought that about a few people in his life, Barney, more often than not. What really sticks with him, makes him feel like there’s something fundamentally wrong with him is, “Fury thinks I should just suck it up?”

“Fury,” Coulson says, expression going hard, “is going to find his inbox inundated with the latest research on a couple of things, PTSD being a big one because that one he at least understands, but I’ve got a friend who’s on the committee that revises the DSM and he’s got thousands of pages of studies that I can use.”

“DSM?” Clint asks.

“The abbreviation for the book which has a comprehensive list of mental disorders,” Coulson says easily, “mostly it’s a reference book used to look up the diagnostic codes so the paperwork can get filed correctly. It’s a big deal whenever they do the updates because by adding or removing a disorder they can literally affect the treatment that some people receive, or even if they receive treatment at all.”

Clint knows what Coulson is doing, he’s engaging him in something that Clint took a small interest in, he’s been doing it for days, but also he’s trying to distract Clint from what just happened as well. Still, it is kind of interesting. “Like?” He asks, because he’s curious and he feels safe cocooned inside the blanket with Coulson’s arm on top of him.

Coulson opens his mouth to speak, pauses as if he thinks better of it but then squares his shoulders and goes on anyway. “Homosexuality was considered a mental disorder that needed treatment until around ‘86, it was removed from the index a decade earlier, but replaced with something that was about as bad,” Coulson says, but he looks uncomfortable, in a strange way that Clint hasn’t seen before, “some of what was done to people because it was considered an illness was—” Coulson shudders, “it didn’t get better overnight, but with the establishment officially saying being gay wasn’t an illness, doctors and hospitals had less leeway to be— well. It wasn’t a quick change, but taking it out of the book meant a lot to some people.” 

“To you,” Clint says, his mouth running when his brain can’t.

“Yes,” Coulson says in a low voice, “I have a lot of experience with people telling me I should just… change. By people who’ve never been in that position in their entire life.” He squeezes Clint’s arm and then strokes away the feeling, “I’m not about to let that happen to anyone else, okay?”

“Okay,” Clint says in the same quiet tone. Despite Clint being surrounded by blankets and Coulson not, he feels like they’re both inside a safe little bubble that anything too sharp, or too loud, will break. “So, Fury isn’t going to fire you?”

Coulson’s entire face blinks and eventually ends up at rueful. “No, but depending on how pissed he is when he gets back to his office, I may be suspended for that right hook I showed him earlier.”

“Seriously, a right hook?” Clint is still boggled, of all people to take a swing at their boss, Coulson seems the least likely.

Coulson’s cheeks pink up, “Yeah, I’m not too proud of that.”

“I’d be proud of landing one on Fury,” Clint says because it’s notoriously hard to pin him down, despite what’s probably an epic case of lack of depth perception.

Coulson goes pinker, “I uh— don’t think he was expecting me to—”

“Lose it?” Clint teases just a little, he’s used to being on the other side of this conversation.

“Get that mad,” Coulson says leaning forward to rest the side of his face on the crook of his right arm that’s laying on the bed, so that both their faces are horizontal in the same direction. He’s looking a little worn around the edges, shoulders slumped, “When you’ve known each other for a while, finding new buttons to push isn’t something you’re expecting.”

Coulson’s eyes close with a tired sigh and Clint knows he’s seeing something special, where Coulson lets himself blur around the edges and someone else can see his imperfections. To Clint, he looks rough and uneven but from far away enough it stops being a badly fitted series of pieces and becomes an illusion of calm and control, like that style of painting that makes almost no sense up close, but from far away, all the pieces are there.Something ticks inside his head and Coulson suddenly gets more real, his third dimension just a little deeper. 

Clint thinks he looks beautiful like this, so human and frail but still so strong. It’s not that Clint hasn’t known this was there, Coulson is a human being after all and Clint has spent enough time with him to know that his suits do wrinkle just a little at the end of the day and his five o’clock shadow starts really filling in around six and his top button comes undone around seven. What makes this wonderful and a little bit wondrous is that Coulson is deliberately showing Clint, or maybe, it’s not deliberate so much as comfort. He’s comfortable enough with Clint, trusts him enough to relax the illusion and see this part of him.

Clint’s hand reaches out, the tips of his fingers trace the edge of the nearest cheekbone. Under them, Coulson’s face changes, it relaxes and the hint of a frown turns into the hint of a smile. He leans into the touch, making it firmer. The pads of Clint’s fingers catch on some stubble and the nerve endings can feel the muscle and sinew beneath the skin and inside his head the picture of Coulson goes complex. It changes from precise but broad sweeping strokes and it breaks away into tiny little lines of perfection that come together and make up Coulson, it’s a messier but more perfect image.

“Hey,” Clint says, words so quiet they might be whispers, Coulson’s eyelids flutter open, giving Clint their full attention, “can I call you Phil?”

Clint has never been this close to someone’s face as it goes from listening to warm acceptance to shy pleasure. “I’d really like that,” Couls— Phil says warmly.

“Okay,” Clint says, words gaining strength, “so Phil,” he tries the name out finding it fits inside his mouth easily, “I was thinking about making some popcorn before we put on the next episode.”

“Clint,” Phil says, smile slowly taking over his face, “popcorn sounds wonderful.”

The thing is, it does, it really, really does.


End file.
